Ready Now
by Anderida
Summary: The end of a hunt and Dean has a decision to make. This is Dean-centric, involves character deaths and is very dark. Not set in any particular season, no spoilers but resurrection is alluded to. Rated for violence and language. R&R would be good. :)


**Ready Now **

**Author's Note: This is Dean-centric, involves character deaths and is very dark. Not set in any particular season, no spoilers but resurrection is alluded to.**

Dean was half sitting against a grimy wall, half lying on the filthy floor of a deserted factory. He took stock of his wounds. He knew bad when he saw it and this, he was certain, was the lethal side of bad. Yet emotionally he couldn't yet accept what his brain and body were shouting at him; that he was dying.

He looked across at his brother, lying on his back maybe ten feet away from him, dead. Dean had heard the fatal blow; felt it almost. In a way, he had felt that more acutely, more deeply, than the blows that had incised and bludgeoned his own body. He had heard the sound of the axe as it cut the air, the 'thwup' as it met the sudden resistance of Sam's torso, the sucking noise that was both the axe being pulled free of flesh and Sam trying in vain to regain the breath that had been forced from him.

Dean heard the axe swing and fall and punish three more times as he tried desperately to reach Sam. But he never got there. His own battle with the knife-wielding associate of the axe-man had engaged his energies and he never did break free in time.

But, to that awful soundtrack, Dean had managed to drive his own knife deeply into his attacker's stomach, wrenching the blade upwards with such force that it shattered at least three of the man's ribs as it breached his diaphragm and his left lung, before nicking a lobe of his heart, and probably his aorta, judging by the amount of blood that spewed out. As the man fell, dead before his knees hit the cement floor, Dean was retrieving his knife and wheeling round to go to Sam's aid.

But, high up on Dean's right thigh, a knife wound through muscle, ligament and blood vessels had him collapsing against the wall that had been at his back; the wall that he was now slumped against. With the axe raised for the chop that would have severed Sam's head from his body, Dean acted instinctively and threw his knife southpaw.

Was it luck or skill that guided his knife to the man's jugular, felling him instantly, permanently? Dean couldn't be sure, but he hoped it had been his accuracy, because he wouldn't have wanted to use any luck on such a futile action. Sam was already dead, Dean already fatally wounded. Where was luck in that?

Luck seemed pretty lacking throughout this whole business to Dean's way of thinking. Irony, though. Irony was here in spades. Humans first off. Humans! Not demons, ghosts, vampires, or any other sort of supernatural monster had bested the Winchester boys today. No, today it was a monster of a natural kind; two human scum-bags, proving, as if proof were needed, that in the evil stakes, man was the front-runner.

Dean and his brother had only become embroiled in this affair because of the ritualistic nature of the killings that yelled, 'monster' louder than a wendigo's fart. But as they got closer to the skinnings and decapitations, the brothers realised something wasn't right.

Dean thought back to when they had both come to the same conclusion; that this wasn't the work of the otherworldly, and that, since they had come this far in their pursuit, they might as well continue and bring these sickos to book. It wasn't as if the usual law enforcement agencies had the remotest clue. If the Winchesters didn't stop the killings, who would? They had been trying to help; to do the 'right thing'. Yeah, irony.

If nothing else, for the short time that he would be able to hold on to conscious thought, Dean could take comfort in knowing that he and Sam had taken out these fucked-up bastards and that no-one else would die at their hands. Yes, he could definitely take some pride in the lifeless bodies of both murderers lying amidst the dust and congealing blood in this abandoned non-descript shit-hole factory in some godforsaken one-horse town in … shit, he couldn't even remember what State they were in.

He couldn't think that the cost had been too high; two hunters for two sadistic serial killers. Death had stalked the Winchesters, like they stalked the supernatural. It was only a matter of time, Dean knew that. Had known that since middle school at least. It was in the nature of being a hunter.

But, as he looked across at his brother's corpse, Dean felt his heart lurch and he wished that a bit of that elusive luck could have spared Sam. Sam didn't deserve this; he had never wanted this life. And Dean hadn't been able to keep him away, give him a 'normal' life, keep his baby brother safe. And now he had failed him ultimately and irrevocably. A tear tipped over his lower lashes.

He had seen his brother dead before of course and, trite as it sounded, it never got any easier. He was grateful for one thing though; that their positions were not reversed. Sam had always been the sensitive one and Dean was comforted that Sam did not have to grieve for him like he was doing now for Sam. Sam had been spared that at least.

And of course he'd been spared the ignominy of knowing that humans had done for them. How was that even remotely possible? But Dean knew. He was a fighter without equal, always able to hold his own in any bar fight, always able to walk, or maybe limp, away. A dirty fighter perhaps, but living on the margins as the Winchesters did, you played by different rules. Dean understood that. But he had never really understood people. And that had been his undoing, their undoing.

These two deeply disturbed inbreds had 100lb a-piece on Dean and his brother. Unlike the losers Dean hustled at pool, who elected to fight rather than pay up, their senses weren't dulled by beer. They had no fear, and they expected to kill. They had been masters of their chosen weapons, an axe for the bigger of the two, and a scalpel-sharp eight inch hunting knife that the shorter one, still taller than Dean, had wielded as though it were a natural extension of his arm.

They swung and parried, slashed and chopped with the seeming effortlessness of a prima ballerina making the part of the Swan Lake's Odette her own. Despite a combined weight of several ballerinas, the final performance of these two thugs could be considered balletic.

The effort to raise the corners of his mouth too much for Dean now, he smiled to himself at the thought of The Hulk and Bluto doing a pas-de-deux. He thought how ballet, something cultured, was the sort of reference Sam would come up with; and his internal smile faded. Sam. Sam was dead.

He knew it was his fault, that he had underestimated the evilness and physical capabilities of two low-life humans and it had cost Sam his life. Sam, his brother, his companion, his best friend, his balance. He had betrayed Sam when it counted most. He had put his brother in harm's way without fully appraising the threat. He had failed his baby brother.

More tears tipped over, lemming-like.

Now, it seemed to Dean, he had a decision to make. It would be his last decision so he had better make the right one and make it count. He was certain that his wounds would prove fatal soon. Aside from the slice across his thigh, and several deep slashes across his chest and his right arm, he had a puncture wound to his back which was causing him to struggle to breath; he knew his right lung had been compromised. It was a race between bleeding out and drowning in his own blood.

In the last few minutes the raw, open cuts to his chest had stopped throbbing. Dean knew that wasn't a good sign; it meant the end was coming. He wanted to crawl to his brother; to take solace in the comfort his brother could bring, just one last time. But Dean feared the effort would hasten his end, and for some reason, as inevitable as his death was, that didn't sit well with him. Maybe it was something to do with being a hunter, or just his stubborn, wayward nature, but Dean did not want to go gentle into that good night. He had heard that somewhere; the movie 'Independence Day'* he thought.

So, this was it. Did he make that one last effort? Turn away from Sam and pull himself over to where his cell phone had fallen when that first blow had struck him, before he realised that the 'punch' he felt was actually the hilt of the man's knife stopping the blade from penetrating further.

And what if he did manage it? Assuming there was cell coverage here and that 911 was quicker to arrive than his blood was to leave, what would be the result? He doubted that his right arm and hand could be made to function again, at least not without the sort of delicate surgery that he could not afford. He knew that if he ever walked again it would be with a profound limp. He was finished as a hunter. The only other thing he knew how to do was fix classic cars but that required two functioning hands.

Dean understood, perhaps better than many, that a person's worth was not measured by the job they did, or their physical abilities. But this wasn't any person here, this was Dean. He had only ever had two purposes in life; to hunt and to protect Sam.

He summoned his last ounce of energy and slid down the wall, leaving a bloody smear in the grime. He used his good leg and arm to pull himself painfully across the floor.

A pool of blood made the floor slick and Dean struggled to drag himself through it. It ought to have grossed him out but he didn't see it like that, it was Sam's blood after all. Sam had been the best. How could his blood be something less? But it made it difficult for Dean to get a purchase, and it took a Herculean effort and pig-headed determination to propel his uncooperative body the final short distance.

But at last, he was there; at Sam's side. This was home to Dean; he had been a dutiful son, a fearsome hunter, a talented, if transient, lover, but it was only as Sam's big brother that he felt fulfilled.

Resting on his side, Dean threw his left arm across Sam's prone body and pulled himself up enough to lay his head down on Sam's chest, above his stilled heart. He wept for the future that would never be, his tears mingling with his blood and that of his brother. They were together.

Dean had kept death waiting. He was ready now.

~FIN~

*Author's Note: Dean is obviously channelling Sam because the quote is from Dylan Thomas:

_"Do not go gentle into that good night._

_Rage, rage against the dying of the light."_


End file.
